


you and i were fireworks

by icemachine



Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Gen, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28469343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemachine/pseuds/icemachine
Summary: “It’s New Year’s Eve,” Larry says. He takes his goggles off, stares at himself -- his sheathed body -- in his mirror. “I should be out there with them waiting for the countdown.”Keeg presses their hand against his chest; an inquisitive gesture. So why aren’t you?“But it’s been sixty years,” he continues. “2019 marks sixty years since…”Since the accident. In a dark mental crevice: Since you.
Relationships: Keeg Bovo & Larry Trainor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	you and i were fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> happy 2021!!!!!! new years fic is a tradition now apparently

Time works differently here. You’d think Keeg would have figured it out by now. Keeg processes time by analyzing Larry’s reactions to it, by burrowing in his memories and curling into them, experiencing time as Larry experiences time; moving backwards. Yearning — _yearning and craving and yearning and craving in every second, in every ephemeral moment that composes this reality—_

Keeg’s attempts at processing time are flat; Larry’s mind rests in the past, Larry’s mind extracted ghosting over the 1960s (like a plane, like—), and therefore it is approaching impossible to distinguish the present from what has already unfolded. Time passes and Larry exist outside of the concept, time passes and Larry shreds the concept with the claws that Keeg has given him. He feels all ninety-four of his years, yet remains the same thirty-five year old man that went on the Mercury mission. He is a beautiful, enthralling enigma. He is a dilemma in every aspect — Keeg supposes that Larry would say the same about them. The reasoning would be different; Larry does not love them like Keeg loves him, Larry feels no fondness. Larry’s determination has been depleted, and the determination that Keeg has to figure him out is not mirrored in his actions.

Keeg does not mind. He only needs to love himself.

Sixty years. Something about _sixty years_ is invading his mind, and its taste is not pleasant, its texture reigning horrific. Keeg cannot touch it, can only feel its icy breath against their frame. It’s — it’s —

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Larry says. He takes his goggles off, stares at himself -- his sheathed body -- in his mirror. “I should be out there with them waiting for the countdown.”

Keeg presses their hand against his chest; an inquisitive gesture. _So why aren’t you?_

“But it’s been sixty years,” he continues. “2019 marks sixty years since…”

_Since the accident._ In a dark mental crevice: _Since you._

“I guess it doesn’t matter.”

He raises a hand up to the back of his head, but it freezes; within him there is a similar yearning, within him, Keeg knows, he _wants_ to celebrate with Rita and Cliff. He can’t take off his bandages yet. A craving to be with his friends; he will not let himself give into this craving. He will sit in limbo, between the contrasting dimensions. 

He walks over to his bed and curls up in it, fetal position, arms around his knees. In his bandages. Unable to reach anything beyond himself.

“I wish you weren’t here,” he whispers. “I hate you,” he whispers. “I hate you for saving me,” he whispers. “I wish I had died in the crash,” he whispers, and this is a fact that Keeg has known since the fraction of their merge, since the formation of their existence, but hearing it now feels as if their energy has been torn into and fed upon. 

It’s torturous.

How can he—

“All I do is hurt the people I love.”

_You’re hurting them now,_ Keeg thinks. _You should be with them._ An impulsive decision to illuminate his chest, his entire body, an ocean of blue intensity enveloping him. “Fuck you,” he says. “I don’t want to hear it. You—”

He’s interrupted by a knock against his door—

“Larry? Are you okay?”

Rita’s voice. Rita’s concern-soaked _voice._

Keeg knows what they have to do. 

They exit his body, grasp his body, haul his goggles over his head. They carry him to the door and then -- _out_ the door, past Rita, into the main room of the manor, where Cliff and Niles are huddled around the television. 11:56, says the clock. Four minutes until 2019. The definite marker of sixty years.

Keeg places him in a chair. Gentle, ginger—he _deserves_ this happiness, this companionship, this distraction. 

When they re-enter his body, become one with his existence again, he awakens to look at his surroundings. A _fuck you_ forms in his mouth, ready to emerge, and recoils back down as Rita places a tender hand on his arm. He looks over at Cliff, who waves at him. In his mind he feels — _loved,_ in his mind he puts together the pieces of the moment, frames the moment picturesque: _if he had died in the crash, he wouldn’t have this. He wouldn’t know Cliff or Rita. He wouldn’t know acceptance. He would just be dead._

Later he will forget this and return circular into his cycle of hatred, Keeg knows, but for now he takes in their warmth.

“Come on,” she says. “Three minutes now. Let’s do our resolutions, hm?”

He stands up. Follows her. As Cliff, Rita, and Niles exchange ideas of their lives in the new year, a thought rustles in Larry’s mind. 

It isn’t _thank you._ It will never be _thank you._ But it’s close -- it borders and blurs into something resembling _positive, pure --_ and Keeg flutters, _loves,_ believes in nothing beyond Larry and his righteousness.

(A phrase enters Larry’s mind like an invasion. He almost processes it, can _almost_ parse it; _you’re welcome. You need them._ )

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> feedback appreciated♥


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